The awful truth

So. Today I had one of Those Days. You know, those days where nothing goes that right but nothing goes that cataclysmically wrong, either? It's like you just stub your toe all day long until by 3 pm you’re willing to try the farm-dog style of self-help: you either relocate under the back porch with the intention of either heading up to that great big kennel in the sky, or you lie low until you re-emerge as the beautiful, shiny, non-cranky butterfly of yesteryear. I am generally of a sanguine temperament, so this state of mind was puzzling, and forced me to delve deep into my subconscious to discover what exactly was going on. In the process, however, I stumbled upon a fairly unpleasant realisation. Apparently, I am very vain. It’s true. ‘Oh,’ I hear you cry, ‘but your style of humour is so delightfully self-deprecating, so self-mocking, it simply cannot be!’ Sorry to rain on your parade, kids, but it seems that in the mirror-loving stakes, all that Glitters is not just Mariah Carey.

Technically, my appearance-induced funk of today actually began on the train to Paris yesterday. As I watched the woman next to me strap herself into an industrial-sized girdle in the middle of the train, I was vaguely fascinated by the sight of someone a) putting their underwear on in a public place, and b) wearing a contraption so antiquated that I’m pretty sure was still made in the original whalebone. In the midst of my youth-fuelled, rather self-congratulatory ruminations on this flesh-coloured harness, however, I got the tingle. Now, before you stop reading, never fear: you are not about to see some ridiculously good looking people walk across this blog and suddenly start talking about genital herpes. Rather, this was one of those, 'that's odd, it must be a mozzie bite' forehead-oriented moments of vague concern. But really I should have guessed: chic city, semi-important meeting ... yes God, I admit it; sometimes you can be very funny. By the time I arrived at Gare du Nord, I was sporting one mind-bogglingly enormous pimple smack between the eyes.

Now, I will never write in an impassioned manner about beauty issues, because not only do I find the idea of putting something made out of a dead baby rabbit on my face a little repulsive, I simply am fairly low-maintenance in my morning routines. However, like every girl of the Dolly generation, I know the blemish commandments: don't touch, don't pick, don't squeeze. In this case, whoever said that rules were made to broken was just plain wrong. After one very painful session with a cotton bud, I now appear to be have modeled myself on Fiona Horne and her stick-on attempts to take part in the Hindu caste system. At any rate, with a blaring stop-sign on my forehead, I am definitely feeling untouchable ...

Isn’t this normal (albeit self-interested, neurotic, middle class) behaviour, though? I mean, doesn’t everyone who has a conjoined twin on their face for two days crack the shits? And truly, it's big; I could even feel grown men backing away in the fear that bodily fluids were going to be exchanged before we even got to 'hello'. However, knowing how ridiculously vapid and self-obsessed this was, I decided to do what anyone with a vague desire for self-respect might do: I went for a run, had some beer, and ate lots of chocolate. After this little combo, I’m now feeling so beatific that I could give Pope Ratzinger a run for his money. Whilst I realise that this sweat/alcohol/fat combination is the equivalent wearing a peanut-butter face mask to bed, and that, odds are my second head will have developed a whole new circle of friends by tomorrow morning, I’m willing to take the risk. What can I say?

Life in Belgium. Life on the edge.